


It Will be Over Someday

by xandeer



Category: True Detective
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, LMAO, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Slurs, further chapters will be post carcosa, pre-carcosa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xandeer/pseuds/xandeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-SUMMARY ADDED SOON-</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Will be Over Someday

1995

The sweltering heat that cascades through the air takes weight upon any surface it touches, and for Marty, it bares too heavy of a burden upon his shoulders.

Sweat beads on his forehead, and stains the back of his dress shirt through his wife beater. If he were to wear another layer, he'd be dead, he's sure of it. Thankfully, he's far past uniform inspection status, and he can wear what he damn well pleases while about in between cases. He has Louisiana's unforgiving weather to thank for the loose dress code.

Wiping at the moisture collecting on his face, he huffs, taking his steps in a coarser stride as he approaches the blank slate of an abode that his partner resides. Maybe Rust's home, maybe he's not; either way, Marty is getting in and getting himself a lick of beer and a minute of pressing his cheek inside a fridge door.

When he approaches the apartment, clutching the files tightly to his side, he's startled when the screen almost swats him off the porch step. 

He flicks his eyes up as he regains his footing, and is greeted by an equally-sweaty Rust, standing before him with wide, red eyes.

"What", Rust says, his voice rough and quiet. 

"You damn near knocked me over, you asshole", Marty blurts, his blunt anger and attitude bubbling up behind his throat. 

It seems every time he sees him, that side of him is unleashed; an irritated and on edge bite to his tone. Maybe if he weren't such a wisemouth, spewing nonsense about impertenance and the meaning of life, he wouldn't feel so tight shouldered around him. 

But especially now that he's coupled with built nerves and the force of the heat outside, he has no patience left in his body to deal with Rust. And he knows that Rust wouldn't give a damn; he'll keep on and be the same no matter what. 

Marty grits his teeth behind his lips as he searches the other mans face, a silence ebbing the air between them.

He rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue.

"I called you earlier, 'member? You asked me to bring phone records and missing persons reports?", he inquires, taking a step forward in an attempt to be invited in, hoping the inside is cooler and will give him instant relief.

Rust must sense that, or at least blatantly tell from the sweat pooling from his colleague, because he turns and steps back inside, leaving the door open while the screen smacks back into its frame, creaking from abuse.

Marty sighs deeply, pushing himself inside and shutting the door behind him, leaning back against the cool surface with a soft thud.

Would it be too intrusive to ask to borrow his shower and sit under cold water for a bit?

The thought has his skin crawling. He hangs back for a second, resting against the door to regain his wits.

When he straightens up and takes another step further, he hears Rust call from the hall.

"Shoes"

Marty inhales and presses his tongue against his front teeth, toeing his shoes off gingerly and padding his aching feet across the floor, tossing the files down on the counter of the kitchenette and leaning against it to rub his cheek.

"Anymore demands?", he says heavily, closing his tired eyes.

No answer, as expected.

Rust crosses into the kitchen and settles in front of him, picking through the papers with shaky fingers and a steady, analyzing gaze. 

Wonder what's up with him, Marty thinks to himself, watching his partner sift quickly through the documents before him, mouthing words to himself as if taking notes mentally.

He's brought out of his thoughts when he realizes Rust had caught his gaze, challenging his eyes with his own in a dare to look away.

That's the thing with him, though. He loves challenging him. 

And he loves that Marty isn't afraid to fight back.

Yet this time, Marty doesn't feel too inclined to be looked in the eye so intensley, so he flicks his gaze elsewhere, drumming his fingers against the counter.

Rust is so... Unsettling. Confusing. Uncomfortable.

Alluring.

"Remind me why I still take your calls ", Marty croaks out, rubbing at his eyes in discomfort.

Rust's lips twitch as he takes his time watching his partner squirm under his gaze, finally turning and grabbing him a glass to fill with tap water to slide towards him.  
"Because we have shit to do", he states matter-of-factly, inhaling and going back to looking his papers over. 

Marty takes the cup and gulps down the water, his throat impeccibally dry and scratchy. Once he's done, he traces the rim in thought.  
"Why'd you call me, Rust. Why didn't you get this shit yourself, huh", he asks, his anger waning and turning into a dull frustration. This earns a scoff from his colleague.

Rust looks up again, eyes softer this time.  
"You're supossed to be my partner. We owe a debt, don't forget that", he says quietly, leaning forward as if someone else were to be listening, wanting only Marty to hear what he says.

"I called you, because I've got a bit of a set up we can use to track down L'adew. With my time in Narcos, I'm sure you know what I mean"

Marty suddenly feels nervous being close to him, taking in a breath as he arches his back and avoids his eyes. His stomach is in knots; it's not like Rust hasn't gotten this close before, but suddenly it's a huge problem now, which scares him a bit.

Who knows what he's feeling; what he thinks now about his partner.

He gives a curt nod, clenching his hand into a fist to target his anxiety somewhere else in his body rather than his head. It works a little.  
"You think you can pick that up again? We must be talkin' hard shit, Rust. I don't exactly know what they fuck with, but if they're in connection with our guy I have a feeling it's bad. Can you handle it?"

The other man senses his nerves, and his face goes blank. He must be inside his head now, thinking. That's the only thing that comes out of that expression.

He sniffs and rubs at his nose, taking step out of the kitchen and into the living room in long strides.

"I don't know. No sense in not trying"

Plopping down in an old chair, he leans down and opens up a footlocker, pulling out a bottle and unscrewing the cap.

After taking a generous swig he holds it out.

Marty is reluctant, but he takes the bottle, shivering slightly as he brushes fingers with Rust grabbing it.

"I really shouldn't be drinkin' ", he notes, putting it to his lips and swallowing the bourbon quickly.

Rust looks amused.

Pulling up a chair, Marty grunts as he sits down, passing the bottle back to the other man. 

"What's this", he says, tapping the locker with his toe.

"Kept everything from my Narcos days. Guns, apparel, boos. I pull it out from time to time, remember what it's like to go through that swallowing sense of entitlement"

He sucks in a breath, picking up a calibur and popping out the rounds. He smacks it back into place and cocks it, running his thumb over the surface.

"I've done my time there, I've been through that period of burning brain cells and cutting open these vains to appease the men around me. Yet, there's something satisfying that I can get from it"

"What?"

"Relief", he says, not looking up at Marty as he clicks the trigger, a snapping sound vibrating through the other man's spine. "I get a sense of relief from the wind of existentiality. Ain't nothin' like getting high and forgetting that you belong to this surface; that you don't exist"

Marty can't help but roll his eyes, craning his neck to look at the ceiling.

"Can't stand when you pull that shit on me, man. Please, for the love of god, just... Lighten up and forget that shit while we're working, alright?"

"Only if you can put behind what's goin' on with Maggie", Rust says, putting the gun back in the box and pulling out his old jacket.

Opening his mouth to snap at him, he stops for a beat and then closes it, exhaling through his nose. Now is not the time to beat him senseless for saying his wife's name.  
He gets a glance at the material Rust is running his hand along with familiarity, giving him a few thoughts.

What if he touched me like that. Run his hands down my skin as tenderly as he does to that jacket. What if it were his lips instead. What if...  
He shakes his head, shocked at the shit popping up in his head. It has to be the damn alcohol; he isn't like that. 

Suddenly he's shaken out of his revery as Rust tosses the jacket his way, already sifting through his other items with a slight interest.

"That damn thing is riddled with bullet holes. Got clipped in the side, made it out of a deal gone bad just barely. Reminds me not to make those dire mistakes again; the shit they do to people... Torturing them in unforseen ways... I'd rather be shot in the head", he mumbles, shutting the locker as he picks out a baggy and heads to the kitchen again.

Marty can't help but thumb over the leather, not even listening to his colleague as he touches the leather. He slips it on, realizes its a bit tight on his stocky frame, but it still fits.  
It smells like Rust. Faint alcohol, some sort of cheap cologne; a scent that he can taste. While he pokes his fingers through the bullet holes on the side, Rust is wrapping his belt around his arm, fastening it tightly.

The sound of the buckle unhooking makes Marty weak in his knees as he fights to stand and head over to the kitchen, watching him flick at a thin needle.

He winces when it pierces his skin, looking away.

"Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"I, uh... Does it hurt... When you push in hard drugs after being sober for so long", he says, feeling stupid for even asking.

Once the needle is out and he's gotten a decent amount of heroin in his system, he unfurls the tight loop from his elbow and looks up at him. His lips are pursed as he glances him over thoughtfully.

"No. Not anymore", Rust says, his lilting voice much quieter as the effects are already taking its toll.

Marty feels uncomfortable, rubbing his neck.

" Good. That's.. Good.", he says, nodding and inhaling deeply.

Rust gives him a hum in response, and stretches his arms out, closing his eyes.

"You can stay", he says after a short period of silence.

"Huh?"

"You can stay", Rust repeats, opening his fridge to grab a cheap beer. "I can tell from the rings under your eyes you've been sleeping in your car. Think it'd be better if I didn't have to drag you around, make me do all the work myself"

Marty almost wants to retort thickly, but a part of him feels warm for the thought that maybe, there's a chance the asshole cares about his wellbeing.

He can't help but smile and chuckle.

"I... Okay", he says, raising his hands in mock defeat.

This earns a small smile from Rust as he pops open the can and takes a sip, licking his lips. 

"Okay", he agrees.

It's not every day you get to make Rust smile, and if you do, you better feel pretty fucking special for doing so. His lips are always a hard line; never curling or offering the slightest chance of a grin. 

But sometimes when he quips a clever response and leaves someone at a loss for words, he'll give that mischevious small smirk.

It takes Marty's breath away, and pools a small warmth in his stomach.

He turns and shoves his hands in his pockets.  
"I'll go get my shit, I guess"


End file.
